


Five Times Riku Didn't Kiss Sora (and one time he totally did).

by unwinding_fantasy



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: 5+1 Things, 90's Nostalgia, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crushes, Cute, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Humor, Kairi knows all, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Pining Riku (Kingdom Hearts), Riku's a punk, Romance, Secret Crush, Slow Burn, Sora's oblivious, how does she do it?, mild swearing and alcohol use, seriously all hail Kairi, she has to put up with her two dunderhead BFFs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9045662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwinding_fantasy/pseuds/unwinding_fantasy
Summary: Riku has a crush. This is how he does nothing about it for a decade.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obsessive_trash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessive_trash/gifts).



> This was written for codi-h-nelson @ tumblr as part of the KH Secret Santa 2k16 project. Surprise, lovely lady! I hope this fluffy little fic brings you some Christmas cheer and lightens up your day!

**i. April, 1994**

Riku’s eight and Sora’s flopped in the sand bawling his eyes out. When he notices Riku’s approach he starts scrubbing the tears away and stares resolutely out over the ocean, which makes Riku frown because Sora and apathy go about as well together as Riku’s tastebuds and the crusty meatloaf/steamed broccoli combo Dad made for dinner yesterday. Sora might’ve gotten away with it but he winds up brushing sand into his eyes and precisely eleven rapid blinks and two face spasms later, he’s crying again. Riku settles down beside his classmate and offers him a sip from his tropical juice box. “You okay?” he asks. He knows Sora isn’t but what else is he meant to say?

With a valiant snuffle, Sora accepts the juice box. “Y-Yeah.” He sticks the straw in his mouth and sucks steadily. Riku’s almost miffed – _a_ sip, singular, was what he’d had in mind because tropical was his favourite – but he gets the impression Sora’s hoping a steady stream of pineapple-y goodness will hold his sadness at bay so it’d be mean to stop him. Instead, he settles down beside the brunet. “My dad says it’s not good to lie,” he says.

“’m not lyin’,” Sora huffs around Riku’s straw. Riku lifts his eyebrows as high as they’ll go, a trick of Dad’s when he doesn’t believe Riku didn’t drop that souvenir coffee mug from M&M’s World in London, until the horrible squelchy sound of the empty juice box floods his ears. Sora blinks, red-rimmed eyes flicking up then away. He hands back the juice box, completely unashamed at having destroyed Riku’s afternoon snack. Absently, the brunet begins running his hands through the sand. “Hey Riku.”

“Yeah?”

“Who brings the presents if Santa’s not real?”

Riku’s glad Sora’s absorbed in tracing random shapes in the sand so he doesn’t notice Riku choking on air. A pause, then, “Who says he’s not real?” His classmate’s all kinds of oblivious so someone must’ve spilled.

“Seifer.”

Riku’s expression darkens. “Seifer’s a jerk. Yesterday he put a hermit crab in my shorts.”

“Heh.”

They don’t talk about it anymore but Sora starts humming as he glances sidelong at Riku before adding a second face beside the spikey-haired one he’s sketched in the sand.

**\--**

**ii. May, 1997**

Riku’s eleven and Sora’s trying to sommersault on the trampoline in Kairi’s backyard. “Trying” being the operative word: he’s landed smack on his back upwards of twenty times, his butt more than Riku can count and on one memorable occasion just as Kairi returned from netball practice, his head. He’d slid off the trampoline entirely after that, moaning about fractured skulls and brain haemorrhaging and Riku could keep all his important worldly possessions (read: Pokemon cards) if he made sure they played _Give It Away_ at his funeral and _no_ , it’s about _Buddhism_ , you weirdo.

“At least I listen to bands people have heard of,” Sora gripes as he clambers back up.

Riku rolls his eyes. “Well, excuse me if I don’t wanna waste my time listening to the same crap as everyone else.”

“Nah, you’d rather fanboy over a band that names their CDs after bowel movements.”

“Whatever,” Riku laughs. He hops up beside the brunet, jerking back with a hissed, “Ouch,” when he gets staticked by the metal frame, and watches Sora watching Kairi through the kitchen window where she’s rummaging around in the freezer for the icy poles she promised them. _She’s a nice girl. A good friend_ , Riku thinks but no matter how hard he's tried convincing himself, being nice and good wasn’t enough to stop him grimacing when she made Sora a daisy chain or traded one of her holofoils for that Wartortle he’d been pining over.

“I know your secret,” Riku says, puffing his fringe out of his face (unsuccessfully; it’s plastered down with sweat.)

Sora laughs with his usual degree of recklessness but Riku doesn’t miss the way his posture goes rigid, blue gaze turning outwards and unfocused. “Secret? You’re my best friend, Riku. Like I’d keep secrets from you.”

“Well duh, I said I knew, didn’t I?”

Sora’s gaze slips sideways, skitters away when he notices Riku’s focussed on him then returns to meet Riku head on. His shoulders get that determined slope to them, the kind that says he totally can climb the huge oak tree in the quad without Mister Leonhart noticing. “What secret?” he ventures.

Now it’s Riku’s turn to fidget uncomfortably. It had seemed easier in his head. _Everything_ was easier where Sora was concerned. Or most things, he amends. He aims for casual when he says, “Kairi. You like her.”

Sora splutters. “What!”

“It’s true,” Riku says, tugging at the t-shirt where it’s sticking to his sweaty back. Kairi’s definitely Sora’s favourite nowadays. Riku’s like… the substitute or something.

The brunet goes quiet. Kairi’s muffled yell of, “Mum, do we have ice-cream?” drifts across the backyard. The small smile on Sora’s lips makes the place behind Riku’s ribcage feel too small and cavernous all at once. “I just,” Sora says. A heartbeat later, he catches Riku’s gaze again and his face flushes. “I like her hair, okay? It’s bright and colourful and, and cool.”

Riku pushes his dull, grey fringe out of his face and mutters, “I guess.”

\--

**iii. June, 2000**

Riku's fourteen and Sora's legs are dangling over the disused platform, sunset spooling his shadow out long. He hesitates for just a second before easing down beside him, wincing at the burn of the tarmac on the skin behind his knees. His nose twitches long before he spies the can loosely clasped between his best friend's fingers.  _This is new._ Keeping his expression neutral is a bigger struggle than the trigonometry test they'd sat yesterday. A sad Sora is one thing -- rare but not unheard of; the guy's picture probably appears beside the dictionary definition of "heart on sleeve" -- but a hollow Sora...  

Despite the heat, Riku shivers. He swallows the lump in his throat and says, "Hey."

Sora won't look at him, just kicks his legs aimlessly. "Why're you here? Did  _she_  send you?" 

She had. For one horrible second, Riku had been overwhelmed by elation, which quickly spiralled into shame when he recognised what a dick move it was to be pleased about this development, followed by a swift de-evolution into anger. 

Riku's response is to pluck the empty drink from Sora's lax fingers and shove it in his backpack. "Cloud's gonna flip when he notices half his case is gone," he mutters, zipping up the bag with more force than necessary. He wants to cut the tension and crack a joke. He wants to deck him for taking Kairi for granted because if Riku can't have him, Sora owes him a successful heterosexual relationship at least. He wants to grab his best friend by the shoulders and shake this, this  _emptiness_  out of him. 

But Riku does none of those things, just swings his legs over the abyss beside his best friend's and watches the sun dip beneath the hazy shimmering line of cityscape until his eyes start watering. Before long, the safety pins in the ripped jeans his mum hates become superheated and Riku starts wondering if he should say something else, try to comfort Sora or disparage Kairi even though she's done nothing wrong but then Sora tilts his head back, offering a heavy sigh to the subdued twilight. "I thought we'd be forever. Pretty stupid, huh?"

Vehement, Riku shakes his head. "Hoping for the best isn't stupid."  _It's what I like about you_ , he means to think but then Sora's blinking, "Serious? Here I thought you just stuck around for the free booze," and Riku realises the admission tumbled out. His heart jumps.  _Ugh, not out loud, moron!_

Now Sora's giving him this funny sidelong glance. He feels the tips of his ears warming.  _Shit fucking shit damn._ Just when he's convinced any longer under the scrutiny will make him explode, Sora asks, "What gives?"

For a split second, Riku doesn't get it and his stomach swoops as he flips through all the possibilities, wondering if Sora knows. But then Sora gestures at the vivid lime green of Riku's freshly dyed locks and thank _god_. In the face of Sora and Kairi's breakup, Riku had forgotten all about his most recent foray into the world of haircare. He cards his hand through his long fringe and manages a half-shrug. "Got sick of the red, I guess."

"Cool," Sora says and his lopsided smile makes Riku's heart ping. 

\--

 **iv.**   **July 9th, 2002**

Riku’s sixteen and holding an ice-cream in one hand, the other digging around in his rucksack for one of the twenty thousand packs of Cracker Jacks his dad forced him to take because it’s traditional or some crap. The crunchy sugary globules aren’t to Riku’s taste –- he hates how every single stray kernel manages to wedge into that cavity he’s been ignoring for months -- but Sora adores the stuff so it isn’t a complete loss. It’s been an anticlimactic game so far but each moment with Sora’s been so perfect that Riku’s had to actively remind himself that Sora doesn’t like him in _that way_ , something he knows like he knows his address, like he knows his dad’s cooking tastes like week old Hot Pockets that have been microwaved beyond Chernobyl, re-frozen and nuked again for kicks. Sora’s his closest friend; Riku’s not prepared to jeopardise their relationship by admitting anything silly like how the idea of holding his hand makes his heart stutter.

Sora pulls at Riku’s t-shirt. He gets so impatient whenever sweets are concerned. “Yeah yeah,” Riku mumbles, doing his best to sound put-out but actually smiling at the ground. Sora yanks harder; “ _Yes_ , already,” Riku says.

“But Riku!” There’s a peculiar edge of excitement lacing his voice that Riku hasn’t heard before, which makes his head snap up, whip-sharp, long hair (blue now) flying. His gaze narrows as he absorbs Sora’s toothy grin, tamps down the subsequent swirl in his stomach that’s halfway between exhileration and nausea, and follows Sora’s outstretched hand towards… towards the big screen.

_Holy shit._

Their faces. Their faces are on the fucking _kiss cam._

“Pucker up!” Sora chortles, making ridiculous kissy lips.

Riku blushes. “S-Sora! Don’t be dumb!” He shoves the brunet away in his stupid smoochy face. The crowd guffaws around them. Riku wonders if this is how he dies: embarrassed to death in front of forty-thousand people plus the best friend he’s fallen head-over-heels for. When melting into the bleachers doesn’t work he settles for screwing up his nose in what he hopes is a suitably grossed out expression instead.

And then the brunet’s throwing his arm around him and planting a kiss on his cheek. Applause rains down. Sora laughs like oxygen and so what if Riku drops half his ice-cream on his shorts or the game ends in a draw or they have to fork out an exorbitant amount for gas on the way home? Even if he’s just substituting for the real thing, it’s as close as he’s going to get so Riku reckons he can die happy now.

 --

**v. September 16th, 2004**

Riku's eighteen and Sora's got rebellion in his eyes, screaming lyrics until his voice starts cracking every other note. Sora doesn't even particularly like Green Day, just came along for Riku and the six pack they'd swiped from beneath Cloud's bed. He'd have a fit when he found out but Sora's willing to face his brother's wrath if it means beery bliss and making Riku’s birthday complete. The words tearing from Sora's lips are too harsh for somebody Riku associates with hot cocoa, extra marshmallows, but the way Sora's stylised hair flies wildly as he moshes has Riku's heart pulsing to the frenetic drumbeat, livewires in place of arteries tingling beneath his skin. Sora grabs Riku by the elbows, presses their foreheads together and they bellow, “ _Zieg heil_ to the president gasman!” in each other’s faces, heedless of booze breath, the crowd of disillusioned and disrespected youth surging around them. He has no clue where Kairi’s gone but he’s glad she’s not seeing this. All day, she’s been urging Riku to hook up with this redhead with the amazing rack or that long-legged chick with the tatts covering both arms. Riku kinda wants to throttle her and kinda wants to thank her because if the glint in her eye is any indication, he suspects she knows what’s up and this is her way of saying, _Get a move on, losers_. He wonders how long he’s got until she cracks and outs his crush on Facebook or something.

Logically speaking, that Sora with his thrift shop shoddy memory can recite each song by a band he isn't passionate about, even the B-sides, is nothing short of miraculous. Riku dares to entertain the thought that Kairi’s right: Sora _does_ expend extra effort for him. Why else work overtime every day for a month so he could surprise Riku with tickets for Riku’s favourite band?

_Ugh, this is torture. Stop it, heart. Just stop._

Between songs, Sora ambushes him: “Why do you keep changing your hair?”

“Huh?”

“Your hair,” Sora tugs one of his own spires, “What’s with all the different colours? Is it just for the tough punk look or…”

Riku swallows. Glances around at the impenetrable wall of human flesh surrounding them. Tries not to feel trapped. Of all the times for Sora to ask. “Well, I guess it’s a culture thing. I wanna look the part and that goes beyond dressing in ripped jeans and Dead Kennedys tees. Gotta be authentic, embrace it _all_ , you know?” He pauses, considering. Sora’s looking unconvinced so Riku sighs and confesses, “Besides, I can’t stand my hair.”

“Really?” Sora sounds genuinely surprised.

“Well yeah. What kind of punk has boring-ass, dull, grey hair?”

“The old kind?”

Riku snorts. Sora scratches the back of his head. Just as Riku’s thinking how useful time travel and the erasure of conversations centred around image sensitive issues would be, Sora interrupts with, “Well, good news. Your hair‘s not grey.”

“Um…” Are they looking at the same thing or has Sora gone bananas?

Sora’s expression softens. “It’s more silver, like new safety pins or those icicles hanging off the porch at your place or the silver bells from the song.”

Riku’s mouth runs dry and his heart soars. Maybe… _Maybe…_

Indecently squished against Riku’s back on the last train home, Sora somehow starts a _Good Riddance_ singalong and the whole carriage joins in like something out of the movies. They sway, drunk and delirious, and even though the song’s as far from romantic as possible Riku can’t stopper the giddy rush when Sora croons, “I hope you had the time of your life,” in his ear. He wants _so badly_ to lean down and kiss him, the culmination of teenage frustration and unrequited emotion, to press their mouths together and count Sora’s teeth with his tongue and taste Sora at a level beyond a mouthful of salt-stiff hair after he dunks Riku beneath the waves in summer, to swallow Sora’s soft gasp when Riku drags his fingernails up his sensitive flanks, to—

Across the carriage, Kairi waggles her eyebrows knowingly.

Riku suppresses a groan. Kairi just giggles.

Thank Christ their stop is next.

\--

**vi. December 18th, 2008**

Riku's twenty-two and Sora just won't quit it, Riku's phone primed to self-destruct if it suffers another barrage of inane texts about the varying themes of the names of Santa's reindeer. He’d lost track of the time somewhere after midnight, head nodding despite ingesting enough caffeine to wake the dead while _Miracle on 34th Street_ buzzed in the background. The night has been uneventful aside from a text war with Kairi, who’s threatening to hang mistletoe fucking _everywhere_ and forcibly smoosh Riku and Sora’s faces together if they don’t hook up already. Riku’s sure she won’t really but after almost a decade of Riku’s unrelenting pining and Sora’s blissful obliviousness, he can hardly blame her. The mistletoe thing is pretty extreme though. She must be scraping the bottom of her bag of tricks now. Desperate times.

…He’s pretty sure she won’t do it.

This, coupled with Sora still partying out there with his work buddies when he’d promised to be home before eleven, has Riku agitated. It's not like he has to go to work tomorrow or anything. Not like he has a Babylon-esque pile of paperwork patiently waiting for him to rock up in four hours. There’s no way he can fall asleep with his wayward housemate AWOL, probably because of some stress hormone in his bloodstream attuning him to Sora’s empty bed, to the absence of Sora’s light, kitten-ish snoring from across the hall.

When the screen lights up with "were r u", Riku purses his lips and contemplates not running to his best friend's side, imagines what his life would be like if he didn't care about the brunet. Not to be outdone, his phone starts vibrating. One defeated sigh later, Riku’s grabbing his keys, opening up to the deluge with a slide of his thumb as he takes the stairs two at a time down to the carpark out back. 

But the moment Sora’s chirpy voice bursts along the line, Riku can’t fight the dopey grin off his face. He drives towards the station with Sora slurring an approximation of  _Jesus of Suburbia_  ("Dearly beloved, are you listening? I can't remember a word that you were saying,") that makes Riku's heart tumble around his chest like a kite in a storm. The guy’s always been a lightweight and Riku’s spent years struggling against his baser instincts to not take advantage of sloshed Soras and their impromptu sleepovers. It should be easy by now. It should be easy but as time passes it only gets harder.

“And then I ordered an espresso martini in your honour,” Sora gushes for the fourth time, fidgeting with the mile-long scarf wrapped around his neck, which he’d jammed in the car door when he’d first hopped in. He’s extremely proud of the fact that he stomached such a bitter beverage. A sprig of holly sits snugly behind his ear. He stinks of coffee chased with piña colada, a weird combination that makes Riku think all sorts of inappropriate pineapple juice-related things. _Could you keep quiet for one second?_ he tells his raging libido.

Riku parks and they stumble up the two flights to their shoebox apartment. Sora’s chattering subsides as Riku fusses with the keys at the threshold, almost dropping them because his fingers are numb from the cold. Sora paws at the sleeve of the ugly Christmas sweater Kairi bought him last year. Riku tries to nudge his best friend away with his shoulder but Sora is determined. He keeps pulling. Insistently. Eventually, Riku whirls on him, “What?” 

It takes an entire seven seconds before Riku notices Sora’s holding the holly over their heads like some strange kind of vegetative trophy, bright blue eyes awake and afire and _aware_ , an entire seven, stretched out seconds during which Rome could’ve probably been constructed and demolished and constructed again. Everything’s slow-mo as Sora grabs a handful of Riku’s hair and _god_ have his eyes always been such a brilliant colour, and Sora tugs him down and locks their lips together in a perfect press of piña colada and coffee.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts but afterwards Riku’s brain is an utter wreck. He feels like Santa’s reindeer have careened down the chimney of his mind, crashed into the Christmas tree and dragged the remnants of smashed baubles and lights all over the place. Was that an accident? Did Sora trip and fall on Riku’s mouth? Had Riku dozed off on the couch while that ancient movie kept rolling in the background? In the face of the completely impossible, Riku can only say one thing: “That’s… not mistletoe.”

In magical terms, Sora’s laughter rivals the silver bells on Santa’s sleigh. He lets the holly drop to the ground, twirling Riku’s silken locks around his icy fingers and nudges his nose, expression awed and full of love. “Substitute,” he whispers, eyes gleaming cheekily, the coffee on his breath making Riku’s head spin. “I’ve been waiting forever to do that. You know, for such a smart guy you’re kinda slow, Ri.”

Riku is flabbergasted. Sora kissed him. _Sora._ Kissed _him._ The brunet drops his hands and starts shuffling a little. “Er, don’t tell me I’ve been reading you wrong all this time."

Dragging someone inside by their scarf, it turns out, is kinda tricky when you’re kissing them like there’s no tomorrow.


End file.
